I have letters from you that you wrote in your sleep/A 
map of your heart and a plan of your street/And echoes on 
ice on a blue Winter night from the spokes of your bike 
in sub-farenheit/The fox makes a sound like my heart on 
the backs where they've laid out the traps/Planes filter 
back through the night, making light work of 
constellations and maps/My opencast heart rewinds back to 
the start and plays us again, should we ever part